


A Matter of Reference Pt I

by PhoenixDragon



Series: A Matter of Reference [1]
Category: Angel/Stargate
Genre: Dark, Fantasy, Gen, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-07
Updated: 2006-10-07
Packaged: 2017-10-11 23:11:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixDragon/pseuds/PhoenixDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They focused on the closed iris, concentration divided between orders from the Control Room and anything going amiss with the 'Gate itself - this routine well known and well-drilled into them - though, on occasion, it was anything but routine</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Matter of Reference Pt I

  
**'Gate Control Room - 1424 hours**

"Unauthorized incoming wormhole -" Sgt. Harriman announced, voice raised slightly to be heard over the now blaring klaxons, " - receiving transmission."

"Let's hear it, Sgt.," Hammond barked, moving behind him to see what would pop up on the M.A.L.P. monitors.

Inside the 'Gateroom, armed SFs filed through the blast doors, the last men in sealing the heavy steel borders behind them. Their calm, stern visages were bathed in the red lights from the overhead sirens, the noise of warning seemingly unaffecting them, even as they tightened their grips on their P-90s, tank-guns and M-16s with M203 grenade launcher attachments. They focused on the closed iris, concentration divided between orders from the Control Room and anything going amiss with the 'Gate itself - this routine well known and well-drilled into them - though, on occasion, it was anything _but_ routine.

Hammond surveyed the men from his vantage point in the Control Room, a stir of pride flickering briefly before he turned to Harriman, poised for his report. If it was a team - they were calling in early, and early call-ins were never good. He had three teams out, SG's 3, 8 and 12 - and all three of them were not due to report in for the next several hours.

" _Harriman_?!" With a little more 'step-to-it' in his voice - he didn't like having to ask for a report twice.

"I-I'm sorry, Sir..." Walter Harriman stammered, eyes flying frantically over the screens with their multiple readings, fingers working at break-neck pace over the keyboard in front of him, confirming and checking all available data. He toggled the comm switch two times, but all he received was static from the overhead speakers. "I'm trying to retrieve the signal - but there's a lot of interference."

He paused and typed in another command, and almost literally sagged with relief before straightening back up again in concern.

"It's SG-3, Sir - I can't seem to get a visual, but I _did_ pick up their GDO code, and a message." A few more taps at the keyboard. "It seems they are in radio range, Sir - they were able to send the code - but their radios."

More static blared from the speakers, almost in synchronous rhythm with the persistent howl of the klaxons. Hammond's forehead wrinkled and he scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck, the muscles tight there - a headache was trying to form between his eyes from the steady thump-thump blare of noise all around him.

"Sir?" Jack O'Neill skidded to a halt just behind him, closely tagged by the rest of SG-1. While it seemed they always showed up out of mere curiosity, anyone within the command structure knew - if there was a problem, SG-1 was called in for the S&R. That is, if they weren't requiring one themselves.

"Just a moment, Colonel. We are still trying to receive a message from SG-3 - seems they are experiencing a problem with their radios at the moment, and the M.A.L.P.'s camera seems to be down." The General cautioned, feeling the tension accelerate at the words ' _SG-3_ ' and ' _M.A.L.P.'s camera down_ '.

O'Neill bounced on the balls of his feet, Daniel standing quietly beside him, eyes focused on the 'Gate, while Teal'c and Carter glanced over the computers - Carter practically itching to get her hands on one of the keyboards to double-check the read-outs herself.

With a species of relief, Sgt. Harriman glanced at the general, pulling his body to one side so the man could see the monitors clearly. "Sir? Receiving a text message from Colonel Reynolds, Sir."

A few more taps at the keys.

/ _This is Commanding Officer Col. Reynolds of SG-3, requesting immediate assistance and back-up. Have come across a serious situation with the planet's atmosphere and our equipment. Radios are receiving, but not transmitting. Planet is uninhabited, situation is not hostile, repeat, not hostile, but we still are in need of assistance. Requesting SG teams 1 and 9, over._ /

Hammond paused, contemplating his next step. He glanced over at SG-1 and seemed to come to a decision, mouth thinning to a fine line in a gesture of determination.

"You heard the man, Colonel, you have 30 minutes to get geared up and at the 'Gate. You will be accompanied by SG-9 - so Dr. Jackson, make sure you have everything you need in the required time frame."

"Yes, Sir," Daniel and O'Neill chorused, echoed faintly by the other two SG-1 members. They turned almost as one body and headed for the stairs, Daniel branching off in the opposite direction from Jack and the others, so he could collected the necessary papers and tomes on the planet and it's origins, before getting geared up to leave.

"Let's go, people -" Hammond ordered, seeming more at ease now that he had made a choice."Harriman, pull up the comm mike, and inform Reynolds that his request is understood and the teams he requires will be coming through at 1500 hours."

"Yes, Sir!" Harriman replied, pulling the mike towards himself to respond to the SG team leader, silencing the alarms as Hammond called for the SFs to stand down over the loudspeaker.

The General then strolled at a brisk pace back to his office to fill out the necessary paperwork to solidify his order. He just hoped he wouldn't be sending rescuers after his rescuers - but was confident that SG-1 would be prepared and have it all in hand.

After all, they weren't the flagship team for nothing.

* * * * * * * * * *

_**And somewhere in the heart of Los Angeles, a lone man rose from the dead in an ancient house of magick, restored from a thin volume that he clutched to his chest like a treasure long-lost. His first breath of renewed life dispelled the cold from his limbs - the second brought him back to his feet.** _

Three minutes later, that same man left the house of death and magick, and staggered his way deep into the belly of the city, searching for his friends and companions.

It was time to rejoin the fight.

* * * * * * * * * *

"Over there, Sir - the signal is coming from the next rise." Carter said, eyes glued to the microwave tracker that was currently searching for the open radio channel that the General had ordered SG-3 to use in a deliberate attempt to make finding them easier. The readings had been all over the chart within the first mile, and Jack had remarked that it was a good thing that SG-3 had marked out in the debriefing transcript where they had wanted to start first, or they would have lost a whole day.

As it was it had already taken them over three hours to even find the faintest traces of the signal, and so it was with great relief that SG-1 and SG-9 trudged towards the next hillock, extra packs on their backs, and a backup M.A.L.P. trundling along on it's caterpillar tracks, controlled by the leader of SG-9. The M.A.L.P. carried even more supplies, as well as books, and scientific equipment, for all three teams - Carter, Daniel and SG-9 were going to have a field day - no pun intended. Which meant boring, boring and more boring for Teal'c and the Colonel and that meant double-vigilance - the more tedious a situation, the more attentive you needed to be.

After all, in a foreign environment - anything could happen.

It turned out that worry was unnecessary.

"Uh, Sir... I think I know why the signal has been bouncing everywhere." Carter called, her voice a mixture of glum, dismayed and excited. Jack rushed up over the rise, Daniel tagging close at his heels. He took in the sight before him and could almost feel his jaw dropping.

"Well, _shit_!" Was the only appropriate response that came to his mind at that moment.

* * * * * * * * * *

"A force field..." Hammond repeated flatly, incredulous and slightly dismayed that SG-1 had come back empty-handed. When their code had come through the 'Gate, he made sure he was standing by with a medical team on hand, ready to receive and assist any injured personnel. Imagine his surprise when SG-1 and only SG-1 breached the event horizon, and after three days of very minimal reports.

"Yes, Sir," Daniel replied, removing his glasses to rub wearily at his eyes. "And not one of any known origin, either. SG-9 is still on the planet, trying to decipher the text on a piece of stonework just inside the field, without becoming trapped by it themselves." With very little success, was what he didn't bother to add.

"We were able to get the supplies to SG-3 without any hitches," Colonel O'Neill assured. "The M.A.L.P. was able to back out again after the initial drop off, too."

"It just seems that nothing _organic_ in nature can breach the barrier." Carter explained.

"Well, that tells me alot about our field rations," The Colonel quipped, earning a mild " _Colonel_!" from the General.

"SG-3 was unharmed," Teal'c said abruptly. "But they made some attempts to leave the structure while in our presence, and though it seems to cause them no injury, it also would not allow them to vacate."

"And that right there tells us that what we are dealing with is essentially not intended to harm anyone trapped, but I will need SG-11 to help me in figuring out the power source and how to turn it off." Carter said.

"Uhhh...Sam?" Daniel broke in. "That's, unfortunately, not going to work."

Carter glanced at him, puzzled and he shrugged, an apologetic grimace surfacing briefly before it disappeared in a concentrated frown. He twisted his glasses in his hands for a moment, preparing to speak, before he carefully reset the frames back on his face, hands folding back over the reports in front of him.

"Doctor Jackson?" Hammond prodded mildly.

"Well...We know that it's not Goa'uld technology, and even though there is a Stargate on the planet, we also know it is not Ancient's technology, either - the language on that tablet fragment didn't support that idea."

He paused and took a sip of water, as Carter nodded beside him, fingers fiddling with the cover of her own reports.

"That's true, Sir. In fact, it doesn't seem to be technology that _any_ of us have come across so far - and it is very advanced by any race's definition."

"So, what do we do, people?" Hammond interrupted concerned, and a little upset that this incident would not be a quick in and out like he had hoped. He had become so dependent - so used to - SG-1 always saving the day, it was a surprise and shock when they did come across a situation where they were stumped, and couldn't make it work.

"I _may_ have an answer," Daniel replied, drawing raised eyebrows from his teammates as well as Hammond. He was going through the photos of the tablet that the M.A.L.P. had transmitted, and though they were more fuzzy than he'd have liked, he was beginning to get an idea of what he was looking at.

He paused and licked his lips nervously, spreading the photos out on the table in front of him.

"But I have a feeling you're not going to like it."

" _Oh_?" Jack drawled, quirking one eyebrow in a classic Teal'c gesture. "And...why not, pray tell?"

"Yeah...ummm...I can't translate this - and I know no one in my department will be able to either."

"You're kidding!" From the Colonel.

"No...no, I'm not."

"What do you mean, you can't translate it, son?" Hammond barked, surprised into a response.

"I mean I can't. It's Latin of a sort, but a varied translation - and there is another language in there that I do not know at all. And we don't necessarily have the luxury of taking the time to for me to figure it out. Even with my whole department and all of it's resources at my disposal, it would take at least a month - if not more. And SG-3 just doesn't have that kind of time. Sam said - well, you tell him, Sam."

"There's a storm coming, Sir." Carter said quietly. "A big one - and it will hit over SG-3 in just under three weeks. I'm sorry, Sir -" she said, as Hammond sat back with a thump. "We didn't know until it was too late. It seems, from the watermarks at the site that this storm comes in every three years - and we just had the bad luck to be at the wrong place at the wrong time."

Hammond blew out a breath, and leaned forward again, eyebrows knitting in stern acceptance.

"How big of a storm are we talking about, Major?" He asked, exasperated by this new development. Why did they always wait to deliver that final one-two punch, anyway?

"Noah's Ark, Sir." Colonel O'Neill supplied helpfully.

Well.

 _That_ was just fucking ducky, wasn't it?

The General sighed again, and all of SG-1 sagged like naughty children - but it turned out Daniel wasn't done.

"I may not be able to translate it, Sir - but I _do_ recognize it, and I think I know who can help. There's just one little hitch..."

Wasn't there always?

"And what's that, son?" Hammond inquired mildly.

"Well, number one, he has to be brought here - and most likely taken off-world if it all comes down to what I think it does."

Hammond clenched his teeth, but swallowed the urge to scream, gesturing for Daniel to continue.

"And number two...we have to find him, Sir."

"That should be easy enough, Dr. Jackson." Hammond soothed, formulating plans in his head already.

"Well, that's the other problem, General."

And here, Hammond had thought there were only _two_ problems, but as usual - with this team, he could be so, so wrong, as Jack would put it.

"I looked him up before the briefing, and his last known address was the law firm Wolfram & Hart in Los Angeles."

Now _that_ \- was a problem.

"Well, that's just _terrific_." O'Neill snarled, while the rest of SG-1 (Daniel in particular) and Hammond looked glum.

"A needle in a friggin' haystack!"

* * * * * * * * * *

**_The reports coming out of Los Angeles over the past several days, was big news world-wide. The city had just seemed to_ explode _overnight - with millions of people streaming out of California in waves of panic and confusion._**

Not only were the initial reports insane - they were also impossible - but that didn't stop the residents from saying it into every friendly ear they could find.

First, they said - there was this dragon...

Los Angeles was in ruins, smoke and rubble prevelant all throughout the city itself, and workers were just now filing back into the devastation to count the dead, rescue who ever was left, and begin the massive cleanup that was required. Finding Daniel's expert looked like a harder task than the translation - but the SGC had the best resources that could be found on the planet.

Good thing, too - because they were gonna need all the help they could get.

* * * * * * * * * *

So, at the end of the day - Carter got her request to head back to the planet with SG-11 acting as escort, back up and research assistants, all to be coordinated with SG-9's research. The effort was futile in many ways, but it gave her something to do besides worry and wonder ' _what if_?'. So, relieved, she headed out, taking a few of the best of the sciences department just in case. And who knew? Maybe they might find something, after all.

With Carter off-world, SG-1 was put on downtime. To give _themselves_ something to do, Teal'c and Jack spent their time catching up on paperwork, P.T. and training with new recruits, respectively.

While Daniel...waited.

He pretended to work, making half-hearted attempts to catalog various artifacts and finish up research on a few miscellaneous papers that went with the items. But his _real_ job was worrying -

What if he was wrong - what if he missed something in that last look at the tablet, in the photos of that same object? What if he _could_ have translated it - what if he hadn't tried hard enough?

So inbetween the waves of busy work he had assigned to himself, he worked on the tablet, and searched through all of his sources for any matching reference points, coming up empty-handed, day after day, as he had known he would. He took comfort in the fact that his best researchers and linguists were planet-side, working night and day to try to crack a code that would equal understanding.

But then, other worrisome thoughts hit him.

What if he was **dead**? Los Angeles was a smoking hole in the ground - only so much rubble designed to look like a city. What if he had wasted the SGC's - not to mention the _entire military's_ \- time and resources, that could have been better used to aid someone who might have been caught at ground zero?

So inbetween busy work, useless linguistic exercises and worry - he fidgeted, swallowed antacids and pretended to not worry. He drank too much coffee, laid awake too long, and ate little.

Until - the call came in.

It had taken over the better part of a week, but they _did_ receive a transmission from a unit of Marines that were currently patrolling Los Angeles.

All it said was -

_'We found him.'_

  
* * * * * * * * * *

  
 **_Amazingly, they had all survived._ **

It was improbable. No - actually, it was _impossible_ , but they had done it. A little worse for wear, feeling ages older and a more than a little dead on their feet - but they had come through it. Not exactly unscathed, but not dead, which, by itself, was a bonus.

Charles had been knocked out halfway through the major portion of the struggle, and Spike had broken formation to stow him in a nearby doorway, and cover him with a blanket of sorts, found abandoned in an alleyway. He had lost three fingers on his left hand, but he would live. He was currently down in the infirmary area, bandaged and a little shaken, but in good enough humor, for now - in fact, that's where everyone was gathered -

Well, everyone but _him_.

Enough about that, though...

Illyria may have lost her god status and all of the powers to go with it, but the little blue bitch hadn't lost her touch over the centuries. She had fought with a blazing calm and ferocity that even Angel found spooky and terrifying - and while considering he spent the first 150 years or so as Angelus, one of the worst vampires in recorded history, that in itself was saying something.

She was the least damaged of them all - and yet she was still angry over the dragon having set fire to her hair - which was now bobbed short and quite appealing actually - though saying so would most likely earn you a broken arm or two. If she could have raised the damn thing from the dead to kill it all over again for that slight to her Highness' appearance, he didn't doubt for a second that she would have.

Spike'd had five swords rammed through him, and a badly aimed stake - so he was camped out in the infirmary with Charles on a more than 'just hanging out and being good blokes' basis. But he too, retained some humor about the whole thing - and was too busy bragging that he had killed every baddie from here to Timbuktoo to really complain about his injuries.

Angel had almost lost his head, and was pretty much banged up, and bruised, with a couple of slices that would take most of the next week to heal, but he said a few pints of blood would fix him up, and he left it at that - bleeding gashes or no. To top it all off (adding insult to injury, one might say) - one of the demons that they had gone head to head with, had managed to pick up a gun and had pumped a few rounds into his backside while he was turned towards something bigger and nastier than him. He bitched about that severely, stating the rules of fair play and good sportsmanship - and how, obviously, that creature had been taught none of that by whatever hellspawn had hatched him - but the wounds were already healing over and would be good as new in less than a few hours.

It was the magickal sword-cuts that were the bitch - which Spike had vigorously agreed to.

And himself? He had gotten a couple of bruises and had been battered around towards the end of the last round - one or two of the flaming bolts of magick that had come crashing toward him had (before he had deflected the attack and taken the Thing's head off with an axe) nearly taken him out of the equation altogether.

 _Again_.

In a nutshell, he had taken over Gunn's position almost as soon as the man had been knocked out, he was there to see that much, before grabbing Charles' favorite toy and waded in with the rest of them - all of whom kept going forward grimly, with barely a flicker of surprise that he had shown up. It was a hard fight, a long one - and though he couldn't remember much there towards the end, obviously, they had won - so that counted for something after all - didn't it?

He wondered if Illyria had told them.

Well...

No matter.

They had all come back to Wolfram and Hart after the showdown was over, staggering, exhausted and with little to say to one another. They had said everything that had needed to be said long before that dragon had flown overhead, and all they needed at that point was food, rest and some time to get over the shock of actually _winning_.

When you don't expect to come out of something alive and somewhat intact - it's almost a let down and a world shaker when you do - and with minimal damage at that.

It's hard to explain.

So for 24 hours, they patched up, ate what they could and rested - not at all fazed that out of all the buildings in Los Angeles, the law firm looked as if it hadn't been touched. They knew instinctively, that even if it had been razed to the ground, it would come back -

Like a bad penny.

So - no...

No surprise to find it looking pristine and gleaming new amongst the crumpled ruins of the city, it's glaring, cruel beauty a hysterical slap amongst the crushed sigh of the streets, the moaning scream of the businesses and houses that were now resembling only so much scrap against the rising dawn.

He had come out here to think.

To contemplate what was next for him.

The Watcher's Council?

Ha! That was a joke. He once worked for Wolfram and Hart - so now the 'good guys' would no longer talk to him. He didn't want to go home to England, anyway. Nothing there _was_ home - just so many bad memories which left a salty taste of panic in his mouth - a laugh in itself, really, considering all that he had been through.

But, this was his home now - and he wasn't laughing.

"No one knows I'm here." He murmured to himself, an idea dawning in his weary mind. "No one knows that we survived it."

And that, finally, brought a smile to his face. It was rusty, and a little faltering - but it was a smile all the same. It had just been to long since he had actually had anything to smile _about_. He'd laugh right out loud if he wasn't so damn bone-tired.

Not only that, but the sound of it would draw the others - and he had gotten away from them for a reason.

He couldn't just be happy - relieved and ready to joke and play and work again.

They were all ready to go on like nothing had happened, but he _couldn't_.

"I died..." He said aloud, rolling the words around in his mouth, tasting them, before he spit them to the gritty, soot filled wind. "I was DEAD."

The words were out, they couldn't be taken back now. He was shocked, overjoyed, and very, very much afraid. After death, how could you just go on living? What was he doing _here?!_

Fortunately, (or unfortunately, depending on your view), he didn't really have the time to answer that question - as his immediate future circled closer in an Apache helicopter - preparing itself to land on the roof.

Of course, when you've died, resurrected yourself, fought an impossible war, won and then found yourself on a roof contemplating exiting just as quietly as you had come in, all in under 72 hours - nothing really surprises you anymore.

So when the nice, burly giant of a man in dark green cammo asked him if he was Wesley Wyndam-Pryce - and if so, would he mind coming with him in his big, black shiny chopper to whereverthefuck - he's first response was to blink, and nod 'yes'.

His second was to climb with no hesitation what so ever, into the belly of the levitating beast - after all, when you've done all those things in under 72 hours, nothing much surprises you - but for a man like Wes, there was always that spark of curiosity that brought him back. Like the proverbial cat with nine lives, you might say.

The giant yelled into a radio that they had found 'him', and gesture for the pilot to take off. Wesley made himself comfortable and laid his head back to doze. Wherever he was going - he might need a nap before he arrived which was plain common sense to him - so he never noticed the grin of approval from the Marine who had waved him on board, as he crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes.

Perhaps, when he arrived at his destination, he would drop Angel and Co. a note to let them know he was alright. They might kick up a big fuss over him just being ' _gone_ ' all of a sudden. Hmmm... Maybe he should have thought of that before he had left.

It wasn't every day that a man stepped up to the roof for a breath of fresh air and just disappeared, after all - but he _was_ talking about Wolfram and Hart - things like that seemed to be standard procedure until they had taken over.

Maybe they'd figure he had jumped (a thought that amused him without being funny), either way, Wesley found it strange that he really didn't much care.

For a man who had spent his whole life caring way too much about everything, and everyone, it was an odd sensation - but not unwelcome. He smiled as he dozed - maybe, now that he was technically dead, things like that would change.

Tomorrow is the beginning of the rest of your Life -

Or Afterlife, depending on your definition of it.

How apt.

Yes...maybe he would call, and let the others know he was fine, and just occupied elsewhere.

You know, 'Cheers, mate - see you soon! Don't forget to write!', with maybe a timetable on how long he would be gone - if he even came back, that is.

Yeah, as soon as he landed, he might just pick up the phone and let them know he was alive and well.

Then again - maybe not.

  
* * * * * * * * * *

  
The guys had dinner at O'Malleys in celebration (the owners had relented and let them back in after a year or two of probation), and while they ate, Jack and Teal'c pumped Daniel for information on his old friend.

"So, who is this guy anyway - and how do you know he can fix this for us?" Jack asked, taking a swig of his beer.

"Wesley Wyndam-Pryce -"

"Ooo - pretentious."

"Unfortunately, yes. He may have changed since I last saw him, but pretentious would be a word I would use." Daniel replied with a grin. "He wasn't exactly what you would call a friend - but he was damn good, and extremely quick to absorb information and utilize it to his best advantage."

"He was not a friend of yours, DanielJackson?" From Teal'c, who was already looking like he wished to speak with Wesley on an up close and personal basis. To him, anyone who was not friends, or at least _friendly_ , with Daniel was a potential target and object of disdain. To be anything but friends with the man was an absurd notion to him. Jaffa loyalty - ya can't break it, and you certainly can't get rid of it once it has taken hold.

"No, but that's okay Teal'c. We were...aware of each other, I guess you could say. We were close rivals at Cambridge for high honors, and we were also both highly competitive when it came to the field of linguistics and other language studies." Daniel shrugged. "No biggie - but we kind of had a tentative relationship outside of the college itself. I liked him on a personal basis - though outside the world of academics, he was a bit of a rabbit -"

"Look who's talking!" Jack snarked, which earned a raised eyebrow from Teal'c and a smirk from Daniel.

"Compared to him, I was a regular social hit." Daniel took a bite of his steak which had just arrived, and continued after he'd taken a sip of his own beer.

"He was very withdrawn - and not too good with people. They seemed to make him nervous. I don't know - I think maybe he was abused at home, not that he would have ever told me. He was a very proud man in many ways. Extremely complex." Another bite, another swallow of beer.

"Anyway, that is besides the point. While we were fiercely competitive in the classroom, we talked outside of class, but only rarely - he was usually gone on holidays and weekends, though I don't think he went home. Some type of training academy, I think he said." Another shrug, accompanied by a small shake of his head. "Can't remember... But, what time we did get to spend outside of class, we mostly discussed...well...class."

"Figures," Jack snorted.

"Anyway, after a couple of years, we had gotten to know each other, but not all that well - and that's when it happened."

"What event took place, DanielJackson?" Asked Teal'c who had noticed the distress in the young man's voice.

"Well...I accused him of being nuts, actually. There was a huge fight, and it was so near graduation - two weeks away if I remember correctly - and we never spoke again outside of class. Irony, huh?"

"It's okay, Daniel," Jack said uncomfortably, shrugging his shoulders.

"No, no it's not." Daniel said, twisting his lips into a parody of a smile. "Because I accused him of being crazy, and now I want to use his 'insanity' to save SG-3."

"What occurred DanielJackson," Teal'c inquired patiently, "to make you feel so angry with yourself."

Daniel hesitated. "It's a looonng story - and, you're going to think, _I'm_ nuts."

"We got time - and I've always thought you were nuts," Jack said reassuringly.

Rolling his eyes with a grin, Daniel began to tell them what had happened on a cold April day, almost twenty years ago - and how he had lost a potential friendship, in such a very short period of time.

  
* * * * * * * * * *

  
 _It was a cold day out - way too cold for April, and Daniel Jackson hurried across the common towards the library, his classes over for the day, but his studying was far from over. Three classes required written dissertations over ten pages long, and one class had assigned a project that had to be completed within a week, but was more likely going to take a month._

And then there were the exams in two weeks.

He hurried through the cold, almost slipping once or twice on the ice patches along the path, hair flopping in his eyes, ragged coat pulled tightly across his abdomen, backpack clunking heavily on his shoulders, making his balance weak at best and treacherous at worst. He was almost to the library, when he saw Wesley sitting on a bench beside the steps, seeming to not notice the cold, flipping through a text he didn't recognize.

He and Wyndam-Pryce had several classes together - the only two they didn't have together was World Languages (Daniel) and Archaic Studies (Wesley) - which was kind of a break from the endless snarking and bullying between the two. Oddly enough, the two young men seemed to derive some perverse enjoyment of their rivalry - which was probably how they had formed a tenuous, but semi-working friendship outside of their respective classes.

"Wes!" He called, trying to wave and walk without falling on his ass.

"Daniel..." Wesley replied with his odd half-smile. He closed his book and sat up straighter in his seat, moving to make room for Daniel, who was huffing and puffing with effort from his dash across the common. He sat down with a flop, blowing his bangs out of his eyes as he turned to grin at the Englishman, who smiled back, though timidly.

"What're you doing?" Daniel asked, rubbing his arms vigorously to get sensation back. "It's damn cold out here!"

"Reading," Wes replied, taking off his glasses to polish them, then setting them back on his nose in a gesture that encouraged Daniel to change the subject. "What are _you_ doing?"

"Running to the library, " Daniel said with a small laugh, curiosity about the book in Wesley's hands nagging at him. He ignore the 'back-off' signal and peered at the cover of the book, a little taken aback by the snarling, twisted looking faces on the front, and raised symbols scrolled across the top.

"I've never seen _that_ before," He said, half to himself, and half to the man holding it. "Where did you get it?"

"It's my father's." Wesley replied uncomfortably. "He loaned it to me for the term - I still have to finish the last two chapters before Academy starts again."

"Lemme see," Daniel demanded, sliding the tome out of Wesley's resistant fingers and opening it in the middle.

Strange symbols and weird text was bleeding across the pages, accompanied by illustrations that were enough to make your mind ache at the mere thought of them. The characters of the symbols seemed to swim and double in front of his eyes, and he squeezed them shut for a moment, feeling vaguely nauseous after staring at them.

"What?" He mumbled, before the book was snatched out of his hands - for which he was extremely grateful.

"Deep breaths, Daniel," Wes said encouragingly at his left. "Deep breaths, you'll be okay. This tome is always mildly disconcerting when you first look at it."

Daniel laughed weakly. Mildly? If that was mild, he didn't want to know what extreme was.

"Sorry about that old chap," Wesley said sympathetically. "That was one of the reasons I didn't show you this book right off the bat - or ever, really. It's...it's not healthy, if you are not used to it."

Daniel's nausea had abated to a dull headache, and he peered at Wes irritably, sure that the man was pulling his leg - having one over on him.

"That wasn't funny." He wheezed, sitting up straight, despite the headache intensifying.

"No. I never said it was. Would you like some water?" Wesley was doing his damnedest to be soothing, without patronizing, and that infuriated Daniel even more.

"No, I don't want water. What the hell is that thing?"

"Just a book Daniel." Wesley seemed to shrink in on himself, and Daniel's irritation peaked. What was he afraid of, anyway?

"No, that's not, 'just a book', Wes old pal, and you know it! What are you really doing with that thing - and can you honestly tell me they allow that horror on campus?"

Wesley sighed and stowed the tome beside him on the bench, shaking his head.

"It is allowed on campus, and it really is just a book, Daniel. Let me get you inside, get you warmed up, with a hot drink. Would you like some coffee?" He stood up and grabbed the book, stuffing it into a satchel that had been parked by his foot.

Daniel's head swam, and he tried to stand too, only to sit back with thump. Wesley frowned in concern, and peered closely into his face.

"Daniel... What page did you open that book to?" He demanded, whipping out a handkerchief from his breast pocket and offering it absently. "I need to know, Daniel."

"Page...page 213." Daniel gasped, wishing the world would hold still long enough for him to get to his feet. If he could just _stand_ he'd be okay, he knew it.

"213...213." Wes mumbled, digging the book back out and flipping through the pages.

"Oh, dear." He said in that shocked, prissy voice he had that Daniel couldn't stand. "Umm... Daniel. Don't stand up. And close your eyes for me, okay?"

Daniel complied and felt something warm and gritty sprinkle on his face, Wes mumbling above him. It sounded almost Latin, and his curiosity out-weighed his discomfort, and he peeked through his eyelids to see what Wesley was doing. His long time academic rival was sprinkling something from a beat-up leather pouch onto his forehead, eyes closed as he whispered odd words interspersed with the Latin-sounding verbs. The most he caught was 'cast out' 'demon' and 'vortex'. He squeezed his eyes shut again, and clenched his teeth against the sudden urge to vomit, finding that if he didn't concentrate on what was being said, he felt ten times better.

What the hell?

The mumbling stopped and the silence seemed to echo across the commons, even the birds having fallen silent. Nothing moved, no sound carried to him, and for a moment, he was afraid that he would open his eyes and be blind as well as deaf.

What had Wesley done to him?

"You can open your eyes now," Wesley said abruptly and all of a sudden the world was filled once more with sound, birds twittering and some asshole yelling for his friend to 'wait up dammit, I'm coming!'.

Daniel pried his eyes open, his eyelids too heavy and the world tilted for a moment before going upright again - the only after effect of whatever had happened to him was a mild headache in the middle of his forehead - and after a couple of blinks, that too, was gone.

"What -" Was all he could manage, and he glanced over at Wesley, who was putting away a leather drawstring bag, before turning to shove his glasses back up on his nose nervously. His hair was in a disarray, and his tie looked rumpled - something so comic, Daniel felt a crazy urge to laugh, and yet, he felt strangely like crying. He glanced at the satchel and remembered Wes having a leather bag in his hands while he did...whatever it was he did. Daniel's recollection of the past ten minutes was becoming rather hazy, and that seemed to bring his irritation with the man right back up to the forefront of his mind.

"What did you do - what was that language you were speaking? And why was page 213 important - and do you always carry whatever it was in that leather bag with you?"

"Well...one question at a time. I prevented you from being sucked through a vortex created by your own mind. The language I was speaking was a mixture of Archaic Latin with a bit of Meshlarh' Demonic thrown in. Page 213 is a reference to the Meshlarh' and their abilities - which happens to be dimension hopping, and yes, I carry that bag with me everywhere, in case I have to reference that specific page. I take a dose of the mixture before I open the book to that page. I also have several other mixtures for various pages in there. You have to guard yourself against some of the book's properties before you read it. Which is why I've never let you look at it before." He shrugged apologetically, and strapped his satchel closed, looking at Daniel out of the corner of his eye.

Daniel blinked rapidly, trying to process the impossible crap being thrown in his direction. Demonic? Meshlarh'? Dimensions? Vortex?

He looked at Wesley in incredulous surprise. All this time, he figured him to be a bit odd - which was no big deal, he was kind of odd himself. But he never figure him to be insane. The very look of Wesley screamed sanity to a T, almost to the point that it was annoying - but, then, maybe it was a cover for his being totally nuts. Maybe the 'Academy' that Wesley spoke of was an insane asylum. After all, no one rational could speak so calmly about demons, vortexs through dimensions and what sounded alot like 'magick tomes' without being completely 'round the twist' as the English were wont to say.

"You're crazy." He said in a half-shocked, half-marveling voice.

Wesley sighed and let his eyes drop back to his bag, which he brought up to his shoulder with a yank.

"This...is why I never told you about myself. It sounds nuts, I know, but you see, I have this calling-"

"No. You are completely, irretrievably insane." Daniel whispered, standing up and backing away from him, his studies and the library completely forgotten at this point.

"Daniel-"

"No! You - you stay away from me! You're fucking loony!"

"Is that how you speak to a man who just saved your life?" Asked Wes calmly, shoulders straight and mussed hair only adding to the overall nutty impression. "Is that how you talk to someone you've known for four years?"

"Saved my life?!" Daniel laughed, wondering who was nuttier here, him or Wes - because almost, for just a split second - he was inclined to believe this lunacy. Wesley was so calm, so convincing. "Are you fucking _kidding_?"

"Daniel..."

"I mean it Wyndam-Pryce - you stay away from me!" Daniel barked truly angry now.

"Oh... So we're back to that now." Wesley said quietly, dropping his eyes again as he edged towards the steps. "Okay, Daniel-"

"Jackson. Soon to be Dr. Jackson," Daniel interjected arrogantly, and from the look on Wesley's face, he wished he could take it back. Take it all back. But the fear of falling in with him, of him and his mad lies, stopped him from any apology he could possibly make.

Wesley hesitated, and glanced back at him, face weary looking, eyes sad and withdrawn. "Okay. Jackson. If that is the way you see it, I can't blame you. I'd still like to be friends though-"

"You're no friend of mine, Wyndam-Pryce," Daniel shot back, unable to help himself. "Just... Stay away from me."

And with that, he booked into the library, slamming the door closed behind him.

  
* * * * * * * * * *

  
"Well..." Jack drawled after a moment of silence. "That doesn't sound like a fight to me. It sounded like he backed down, and you two went your separate ways."

Daniel shook his head and pushed away his empty plate, mouth turned down into a frown.

"No...after that, our rivalry in the classroom became more fierce, more...vicious - Wes giving as good as he got. Though after classes, he would disappear, and he would never look at me directly after that. We were right back to square one."

"I am most sorry, DanielJackson." Teal'c said quietly, laying a hand on Daniel's arm in a show of sympathy.

"Well, if it's any comfort, Daniel - it does sound as if he wasn't, you know, all _there_." Jack grimaced, making a twirling motion beside his temple.

Daniel shook his head sadly, and caught Jack's eye.

"After all that we've seen, after all that we've _done_ \- how can we say what he was doing, what he _believed_ , is so impossible."

Jack squirmed and looked uncomfortable, and Teal'c gave one nod, eyes far away, as if he was contemplating the universe.

"In the end, Jack - it seems that nothing is impossible - and I turned him away, I _laughed_ at him and called him crazy - and he may have been right after all. If he hates me and refuses to work with me to save SG-3, I'll be disappointed, but I'll understand." He paused and shrugged, looking glum. "I've... _seen_ things...on digs, that they've had to call experts in for, because even the best linguists couldn't translate it. And then, only eight years ago, I opened up the impossible - and I go through it practically every day, and I am no longer awed by it - it's become so... _usual_ , I guess you'd say. I opened the ninth wonder of the world, and it's impossible. So, what does that say about Wes and what he does - and is it too, as ordinary and everyday for him, as stepping through the 'Gate is for me?"

Neither Teal'c nor Jack had an answer for that, and not too long after, they paid up and went back to the Mountain, to await the newest recruit into their strange, but familiar, fold.

  
* * * * * * * * * *

  
Wesley had slept through most of the flight on the chopper, and again on the airplane to where ever he was going. He thought it odd that he had landed at an Airforce base - but then again, he had been picked up by a Marine and rode all the way in military transports, so maybe it wasn't so strange after all.

After the flight, he was fed at a cafeteria at Peterson's Airforce Base - and then into a Jeep for a long ride to Cheyenne Mountain. His curiosity mounted as he rode through twenty checkpoints, and then to the foot of the complex. When inside, he went underground through 11 floors, signed in, and was amazingly enough taken down through another 15 floors, before being escorted to a room with a set of metal spiral stairs and a long wooden table that just screamed 'conference room'.

The two gentlemen who had led him this far, flanked the doorway, one of them mumbling something into a radio on his shoulder, before crossing his arms behind his back to wait for...well... He would find out, wouldn't he? He picked a spot at the table, ignoring the huge bay window in front of him, assuming that if they wanted him to look, they'd give him permission, and started twiddling his thumbs, sure he was in for a long wait. These military types liked to keep you tense and hopping, that was for sure.

For a moment, but only a moment, he worried again that maybe he had done something wrong to offend the armed forces and they were going to throw him into prison - and this was just your standard scare tactic before they chucked you into a cell. Then he wondered if maybe he should have told the others where he was going after all - I mean, what if he disappeared into the bowels of the Mountain forever, never to be heard from again?

Finding this thought mildly amusing and not at all frightening, he sat back to wait, only to find he didn't have to wait long.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" A voice said from behind him, and Wesley jumped, startled that he hadn't heard the man coming. It reflected how tired he was, how worn down, when he couldn't even hear the footsteps that were approaching him. He turned in his seat, starting to stand, only for the balding gentleman in Air Force dress to motion him back into his seat.

"I'm sorry?" He asked, still recovering from being startled.

The man gestured at the window, a small smile of pride appearing on his face, as he looked at Wes expectantly. Wesley could feel himself flush with embarrassment, and watched as a look of sheer amazement flickered on the man's countenance, before it disappeared back into the smile.

"The 'Gate" the man prompted (who, by all appearances from the stars on his shoulders, was a General) and waved towards the window, folding his hands on the back of a chair as if to wait. It dawned on Wesley that he was expected to go look, and he got up, heading towards the direction the General had indicated.

"I'm surprised you haven't taken a peek already," the man said with a laugh,"so either you are damned polite, or you thought you had to have permission.

"A bit of both," Wesley said distractedly, and peered through the glass into the controlled chaos below.

A massive ring of stone spun slowly at the back of the room below, a rumbling grinding sound issuing forth as it moved. A team of men in beige cammos and packs gathered in front of it, talking amongst themselves as they adjusted their gear, weapons held at their sides, seeming for all the world that they were going somewhere.

"Chevron one encoded..." A disembodied voice called, as the ring lurched to a stop, before spinning in the opposite direction.

"Perfect!" The general crowed, "now you get to see her in action - which makes her even more impressive."

The general joined him at the window, looking down into the crowd below.

"That's SG-13," he explained, as if Wes could understand him. "Ahh, I never get tired of this."

His Texan accent seemed to thicken in excitement, the urge to fidget and get going somewhere evident in the glances at the spiral staircase and set of his shoulders. This was a man who was used to moving, you could tell. And fast, at that.

He glanced back at the ring as the voice called out that chevron two was encoded. It spun back and forth like a weird combination lock, until, with a triumphant and almost elated glee, the disembodied voice called out that chevron seven was locked and a wave of blue-silver shot out of the ring, before settling back in on itself, a shimmering pool of light in a steel colored frame. He blinked in surprise and checked the instinctive reaction to step backwards away from the window, amazed that the men in front of the ring hadn't reacted at all. They just formed a tighter group and - and...

Wesley blinked, mouth opening in a protestive squawk as they just - stepped through the silver puddle. And vanished.

"See? Beautiful." The general reiterated. Then he became all business.

"I assume you signed all the confidentiality agreements and disclosures, or else they wouldn't have let you in here."

Wes vaguely remembered signing some papers at Peterson, the man beside him - a Major Davis, if he recalled correctly - spouting some nonsense about national security before shoving some papers underneath his nose for him to sign. He did so automatically, not really thinking about what the man was saying, just interested in getting to the end of his journey so he could find out what he had been dragged across at least five states for.

"I do recall signing some paperwork for the interest of national security, if that's what you are talking about." He agreed.

The general nodded and introduced himself, apologetic for not having done so before. After that they had a seat at the table, General Hammond, as Wesley now knew him to be, dropped a folder in front of him and smiled.

"Now, I have a couple of things to tell you, then I will have the SFs escort you to a VIP room to get some rest. You have a long couple of days ahead of you. That is, if you agree to work with us. Just hold onto your disbelief, and I will tell you what is going on around here, and how you happen to be brought here and why. If you have any questions feel free to ask." Hammond said.

Then began to tell him the most amazing tale he had heard in some time. He listened, attention focused completely on the General and what he was saying, as he told a story about the device below, and how it happened to wind up in the clutches of the military. Then the most unbelievable part of the story - how they managed to come across an old school rival named Daniel Jackson - and beyond that, how they'd opened up the Universe, using the Doctor's ingenuity, enthusiasm and those old famous leaps of logic that Wesley remembered so well.

Needless to say, it was one of the most fantastic, yet interesting tales he had heard in a long time.


End file.
